The Lemon Tree

by Helen Forrester

  Amused by the formality, but feeling pressed for time, Wallace Helena said she would try on some of the readymade ones. ‘Suitable for everyday wear and for walking out,’ she added, fearing suddenly the arrival of dinner gowns.

  The woman was a genius, Wallace Helena thankfully decided. After measuring her customer, she found her a plain grey wool dress with a softly defined waistline. It had a loose overjacket with long grey velvet lapels that closed with a single button below the waist. A white fichu tumbled in frills to fill the neckline of the jacket. Though it made the expectant mother look stouter than she was, it would disguise an expanding waistline for a little while. It was the nicest frock Wallace Helena had ever owned.

  She also bought a black cashmere costume, with a loose, fringed wrap and two different black bodices; the latter, though cut out, had to be made up. ‘We cut them quite generously,’ the shop assistant assured her; she had been temporarily joined by an elderly cutter and fitter, attended by a shrimp of an apprentice who gazed popeyed at Wallace Helena. The two new arrivals circled round their customer with a polite, ‘Pardon me, Madam,’ as the apprentice passed pieces to the cutter and that lady draped them on Wallace Helena and stuck pins in strategic places.

  Once the fitting was completed, the shop assistant stepped forward again, and said, ‘You will be surprised how well it will look, Madam, and it will certainly hide your little secret for a few months longer.’

  The small apprentice had been picking up dropped pins. At the assistant’s remark, she glanced up in surprise. The fitter saw the glance, as she was taking the pinned bodice off Wallace Helena, and she scowled at the girl and told her to get back to the workroom; apprentices should not stare at a customer – it might disconcert a lady.

  Wallace Helena smiled at the shop assistant, and before she knew where she was, she had also been sold a grey silk dress, which had obviously been designed for the portly older woman. It had a drape of silk from one shoulder which swirled gently across her small chest and then round her waist. The result was a suggestion of the apronlike drapery which many women seemed to be wearing, but without a tight waistline. ‘For best occasions,’ the shop assistant said firmly, and the cutter murmured that Madam looked charming.

  Feeling greatly cheered up and quite pleased with herself, Wallace Helena asked when the bodices would be ready.

  ‘In two days’ time, Madam. We can send them up to your house. The other slight adjustments can be done in twenty-four hours.’

  Wallace Helena was alarmed. She said hastily, ‘I’ll come in – I enjoy coming to town. And you can see them on me – and make sure that everything is just so.’

  Pleased by the implied compliment, the assistant agreed to this, and then asked cautiously, ‘Madam has an account here?’

  ‘No. I’m a visitor. I’ll pay for the dresses now, and for the costume when I come for the clothes.’

  As the assistant wrote out the bill, she inquired politely, ‘Madam is from America?’

  Wallace Helena froze slightly. She did not want to be identified. After a second, she said, ‘Yes. From Chicago.’

  ‘I trust Madam is enjoying her visit?’ The assistant pushed Wallace Helena’s sovereigns into a little brass tube, screwed it into a container hanging above her head, pulled a handle and, to Wallace Helena’s delight, the whole contraption shot across the store, to be fielded by a prim gentleman seated in a tiny glass-enclosed office. Her change came back the same way.

  It had been a most entertaining hour and she felt much better; the dresses should buy her a couple of extra months.

  In the workroom, the small apprentice, Lena Grant, was bursting to tell her friend, Bettina, who sat next to her, that a lady whom she knew to be a Miss had a little secret, and she had just bought three dresses to cover it up. She dared not open her mouth, however, while the dressmakers were sitting nearby and constantly calling for cotton or tapes or bindings or even their heavy dress forms.

  She worked until seven-thirty that night and forgot about her piece of gossip until she got home.

  Her grandfather, Georgie Grant, had preceded her and was eating his tea at the bare wooden table in the tiny living-room. Her widowed mother was sitting opposite him, her youngest son in her lap. Lena had passed her other two brothers, who had been playing in the street.

  ‘‘lo, Mam. ‘lo, Grandpa,’ she greeted them, as she took off her hat and hung it on the back of the door. ‘Guess what I saw today. Your Miss Hardin’, Grandpa.’

  ‘You did?’ He stuffed some more bread into his mouth and pushed his cup across to her mother to have it refilled.

  The girl pulled out a stool and sat down at the table. She snatched up a piece of bread from the wooden board in the centre of the table, and began to eat. ‘Oh, aye, and you know something, Mam? She’s expectin’.’

  Georgie Grant swallowed and then put down his piece of bread and the spoon with which he had been eating stew. He looked at his granddaughter in stunned amazement. Then he warned, ‘Be careful what you say, you stupid judy. You probably got the wrong woman. You don’t know Miss Hardin’.’

  Lena tossed her head, and said, ‘Everybody round here knows her. We see her walkin’ over to the works from The Cockle Hole – that’s where she lives, int it?’

  Seeing fury slowly mount in Georgie’s reddening face, her mother said anxiously, ‘Now, Dad!’

  Georgie half-rose from his seat. He shook his spoon in his granddaughter’s face and roared at her. ‘You mind your own business, you busy lizzie! What the gentry does int none of your business. You keep your bleedin’ mouth shut or you’ll soon be out of a job – and I’m not goin’ to feed you, if you go on like that.’

  Lena cringed away from the old man. ‘I didn’t mean nothin’, Grandpa.’

  He leaned forward and hit her with his tin spoon. She yelped with the pain, and he shouted, ‘That’s nothin’ to what I’ll give yez if you so much as open your mouth again about Miss Hardin’. First, it’s a bleedin’ lie and, second, if it int, all the more reason to keep your gob shut.’

  He plunked himself back in his seat and his daughter handed him his refilled cup. Lena began to whimper and then leaned towards her mother. ‘I didn’t mean nothin’, Mam!’ she howled miserably.

  ‘Jaysus Mary!’ the old man swore and got up from the table. ‘Shut up, will yez.’ He picked up his cap from the mantelpiece and slammed it onto his head. ‘I’m goin’ for a jar,’ he said, and swung out of the tiny house.

  As he walked angrily down to his favourite pub, he muttered to himself, ‘Our Mr Benji’s jumped the gun, I suppose. The stupid bugger! Couldn’t wait to ring the bell. The kid must’ve heard her say somethin’ – Lena don’t lie.’

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Back in her dusty office, Wallace Helena found that Mr Helliwell had opened the mail and put it on her desk.

  ‘I gave two complaints direct to Mr Benjamin, Miss Harding – and an order to Mr Bobsworth. I believed you’d wish them attended to immediately.’

  ‘Very sensible, Mr Helliwell. I forgot last night to ask Mr Al-Khoury to give me some time today. There are all the papers handed to me by Mr Benson yesterday to go through. See if he could arrange to spend the afternoon with me.’

  Mr Helliwell bowed and was about to leave the room, when she called after him, ‘And ask Alfie to get me something to smoke. Here’s a florin.’ She slapped a silver coin onto the end of her desk.

  Rather shaken, Mr Helliwell turned quickly round, his mouth open as if to say something. He was forestalled by Wallace Helena who assured him with a twinkle in her eye that she was not going to smoke in the office.

  He ventured to smile back at her and went off quite jauntily to find Benji. The old girl was much more herself this morning, thank goodness.

  Wallace Helena skimmed quickly through the pile of letters on her desk and then knocked them into a neat pile again ready for Benji. She got up from her chair and unhooked her reticule from the coat-stand near the door. She opened it to
take out Dr Biggs’s medicine and a spoon. Then she took the prescribed dose, and made a face as she went over to the tiny sink in the corner of the office to rinse the spoon. In the excitement of going to Frisby, Dyke’s, she had forgotten to take the medicine after breakfast and had snatched up the bottle as she left the house.

  As she dried her hands on a small towel, she began to pace up and down the narrow room, methodically sorting out in her mind, first, where the child was to be born and, second, whether to put the Lady Lavender on the market. She kept coming back to what Joe would think about the child.

  Then she began to worry about her employees. She did not want to sell the company only to see it almost immediately closed down. It was small in comparison with other companies making soap; yet it had the potential for growth. A bigger company might very well buy it to get rid of the competition.

  Into this rumination intruded the idea that she could leave Benji to manage the firm for a few months, until the child was born; then, perhaps, keep the baby outside the city with a wet nurse.

  It would not solve the matter, she decided almost immediately. The baby would still be as illegitimate as Benji, and that, added to its colour, would leave it terribly disadvantaged, no matter how well she endeavoured to educate it and provide for it.

  And could she really desert Joe, for the sake of a comfortable life? She stopped dead in the middle of the dull brown linoleum of her uncle’s office, as she faced the question squarely.

  Through the open window, she heard the yard foreman shouting at his labourers, and the thud of boxes being loaded on a cart. A horse neighed and jingled its harness. Beyond these noises, it was as if she heard a door slowly close, as she answered, ‘No.’

  With no one watching her, her face saddened and, if Joe had been there, he would have recognized the resigned despair which he had seen on the scratched face of a fourteen-year-old girl riding towards him on a borrowed horse, so many years ago.

  She must go back to Fort Edmonton; and trust that, when Joe saw the child, he would be convinced it was his.

  She heaved a great sigh, and wanted suddenly to go home soon, to get it over with, to pick up the threads of her settler’s life before the winter really set in, and plan with Aunt Theresa how best to deliver the baby. She smiled wryly. It wouldn’t be the first child to be received into a fresh rabbit skin, instead of a blue crocheted blanket.

  Perhaps the sedation of the cough medicine had lowered her resistance a little, because she sat down suddenly, and began to cry slow, hot tears, not because of her current predicament, but for all the intense effort she had made since the terrible day when her father had lowered her from the roof of her home, while fire from other homes made a thick haze round them. She had stayed alive, she told herself, as she took out her handkerchief, but it seemed as if she was never to be allowed to crawl onto a plateau where she could rest – and enjoy life.

  When Benji came in to say that he had asked Helliwell to get both of them some lunch, so that they could gain more time that afternoon, he found her sitting quietly, her head bent, her handkerchief clutched tightly in her hand.

  She looked up at him and he saw the empty hopelessness in her wet eyes. She seemed to have aged suddenly. She nodded agreement to working and lunching with him at the same time. Then, she grinned at him unexpectedly, and ordered, ‘Tell Helliwell to bring a pot of hot, very strong tea. I need it.’

  He was relieved to see her smile, and he asked, ‘Would you like a bottle of wine? He’s not yet gone to get the lunch – he could bring one in.’

  ‘Yes,’ she agreed slowly. ‘I’m not sure what it does to babies, but I would like a glass.’

  Benji laughed. ‘I’m sure the little tyke can stand a glass or two. I’ll tell Helliwell.’

  As she sipped a rather raw Italian wine from a teacup, Benji was thankful to see some animation return to her.

  She proposed a toast to the longevity of the Lady Lavender, and they drank it with gusto; it cheered him up. After hearing that she was in the family way, he had worried about his own future. Now, at least she seemed to think the firm would survive; otherwise, why had she toasted it?

  She brought out the papers she had received from Mr Benson. They went through the various financial statements, so that it was clear to him that the firm was in a sound position. Then she told him about the box of gold sovereigns. ‘It was in the bank strong-room – a dead weight – and three locks.’

  He whistled. ‘No wonder he wouldn’t part with a halfpenny if he could help it.’

  ‘I’m sure he intended to plough the money into the company, as he seems to have done before, at times.’

  ‘Yes, he did. I can remember a couple of times when he went on a spree of buying for the firm.’

  ‘It seems to me, Benji, that he intended to bring the firm right into the 1880s; and I think his first moves were to recruit Mr Turner and Mr Ferguson.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be surprised.’

  ‘Well, I’m having the sovereigns transferred to a special Capital Account, so that if all goes well it can be used to mechanize production, or start a new line – when we’re ready. I shall keep it in such a way that, if I have to sell, that account remains with me.’

  Benji sighed, and she said to him robustly, ‘Now stop worrying. I have an idea in mind, but I want first to see Mr Benson and possibly talk to the bank people again. All you have to do is to keep the place going for me, and in a couple of days or so it should all be sorted out’

  ‘Have you heard from your partner, then?’

  ‘Not yet’

  He waited for her to say more, but she seemed satisfied that they had completed what she wanted to do, so he took out his pocket watch, and said, ‘It’s still quite early, so I’ll get back to my desk.’

  She nodded agreement, and he unfolded his big, rumpled body from his chair and tucked his pencil into his breast pocket. He took up the notes he had been making and folded them into a neat square. ‘See you later,’ he said, and moved towards the door.

  ‘And Benji,’ she called to him, as he was about to turn the handle.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You’re a sweetheart.’

  He grinned in sheepish surprise, and left her.

  She put her head down on the desk and burst into weary tears. Now, she had the difficult job of convincing Mr Benson about what she had decided to do, without telling him that she was pregnant.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Mr Benson was unable to see her for two days, so in the meantime she collected her new dresses from Frisby, Dyke’s. The enterprising shop assistant led her over to the Millinery Department and persuaded her to buy a new autumn hat which went with both the daytime dresses. She failed to sell her a pretty little veiled straw hat with a bunch of white feathers at the side to wear with the grey silk, for tea parties. ‘Enough is enough,’ said Wallace Helena grimly. The shop assistant wondered suddenly, when she saw Wallace Helena’s forbidding expression, who her client really was; her rather shabby old-fashioned clothes had suggested someone of neither wealth nor eminence. Now, when Wallace Helena was shown out of the store by the shopwalker, she was not so sure.

  That morning, Wallace Helena had received a letter from Joe, in response to one of hers in which she had first hinted at the idea of his coming to Liverpool and making a new life with her in the city. In four lines, he told her to hurry up with selling the soapery and come home. Did she realize she had already been away two months?

  And now it’s over three months, Wallace Helena considered irritably; Dr Biggs had made her acutely aware of the calendar.

  The following morning, she walked through the soap works dressed in her new black skirt, bodice and carefully draped shawl. She looked round the stables and commended the stableman on their cleanliness, peeped into the carpentry and wheelwright’s area and nodded good morning; she noticed that it was well swept – Benji had obviously followed up on her complaint about the plant’s housekeeping. As she crossed the yard, she no
ted that it had been washed down and sanded. She spent a friendly half hour with Mr Tasker and suggested that they try again to get an apprentice or two for his department He sucked his teeth over this, while he watched one of his men check the contents of a boiler and, at the same time, considered her suggestion.

  Satisfied, he stepped down again and apologized for interrupting her. ‘What with the silicate of soda and the boilin’ of the soap, the framin’, the crutchin’, and checkin’ of supplies, I’ve got me hands full. There’s no end to it all.’ He rubbed his hands down his thighs, and moved a little away from his assistants, to say quietly to her, ‘I need a real bright youngster to train. These lads are all right, but they’ll never be soap masters.’

  Wallace Helena smiled, though she took his remarks very seriously. She assured him that she and Mr Al-Khoury were discussing a better organization of the work throughout the plant and he would certainly be consulted. Meantime, he should consider a good apprentice, or even a journeyman who had already some experience in soap-making; perhaps there was someone he knew who would like the job.

  Within herself, she was saying goodbye to all her employees. With their tremendous humour, their eccentricities and their obvious interest in the Lady Lavender as an entity, they had enriched her life; and she wondered how she was going to bear her isolation when she returned home.

  As she was crossing the yard to the Power House, she saw Georgie Grant. He was waiting to unload a wagon of barrels of fat. The carter was backing the horse to manoeuvre the wagon into a more convenient position.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Grant.’

  George straightened his bent shoulders a little, his wickedly shrewd blue eyes staring as he took in the obviously new dress; he could smell the newness of the material. So young Lena had not made a mistake.